We'll Always Have Paperclips
by Taliahah
Summary: Joan, a rising young operative, finds herself in Paris for the first time, paired with a particularly dour partner whose depression and asceticism may prevent the fulfillment of their mission. But not if Joan has anything to say about it. Arthur appears in it in the last chapter.
1. Chapter 1

Joan keyed herself into the cheap extended-stay suite that would be their base in Paris, pulling her bag along behind her. She had been informed that her partner for this mission had already arrived and given the jetlag, would probably be sound asleep. The room was entirely dark except for the kitchenette, where she saw her partner seated. Grim but handsome, she thought, not displeased. It was her first time in Paris and she wouldn't mind being in the company of a handsome partner in the least. At the moment he was aiming a gun in her direction. "Hi, I'm Joan," she said lightly, not breaking stride. "Think you were expecting me?"

"Americans think they can walk in anywhere without knocking?"

"Sorry. Thought you'd be asleep. They told me you'd flown in from New Zealand?" He didn't acknowledge the information, but did set down the gun. She saw it was a companion to another one lying in pieces in front of him.

"I'm Eyal Levin. Your room is to the right," he said, gesturing with his head. He had unusual ears, she noted, and black brows that went well with his dark expression; he was well-built and broad-shouldered. Perhaps sensing her inspection, he turned his attention back to assembling the other gun; as she passed him, she noticed that his eyes were closed as he expertly slapped the pieces together.

He could be a problem. Or a challenge. Joan smiled to herself.

In the morning Joan got up and went to the kitchen for coffee, which she could smell from her room. Point to him for the morning beverage prep, though if he had not, that might have been reason to bounce down to the street and find a genuine French café for her café.

He was on the floor in the living room doing push-ups. It would have been more entertaining for Joan if he hadn't been fully dressed down to his shoes and socks while he was doing them. He was counting himself softly, and she didn't think he had bumped the numbers for her benefit. "85 – 86 …" She went on into the kitchenette to pour her coffee, and that time took him to his hundred. Then it was on to one-armed leg lifts. He scarcely seemed to be noting her, which also could be a bad sign. He didn't know her well enough to ignore her – if his "focus" was keeping him from quickly and accurately assessing his environment, it could be deadly in the field. She'd been told that he came out of the hard side of Mossad – not that they had much of a soft side – and so far had mainly accomplished assassinations and kidnappings, tightly directed, black-and-white situations. Why he had been assigned with her to what should be a slightly fluffier corporate-intrigue job where neither was likely was unknown. She decided to go shower. And then come back for some more coffee.

She came back through the living room area wearing two towels – one on her head, one scarcely covering her body. Good god, he was back at the kitchen table assembling and disassembling his guns. She sat down opposite him. He glanced at her but again, scarcely acknowledged her, turning his eyes back down the disassembled gun as if he had smelled something bad.

"What's the problem?"

"Your attire is hardly suitable. If you're trying to ... to vamp me, give it up."

She couldn't believe he'd used the word "vamp". What old movie did he get that from? Had it even been a talkie?

"Apparently I've been misinformed. I'd heard you were Mossad, not Taliban."

The gun pieces clattered to a stop. "I am here to do a job," and for a moment, his Israeli accent was much more obvious. "And I do not appreciate distractions. Put some clothes on."

"And I'll tell you what I don't appreciate – a so-called partner who's so tightly wound that his intuition will be useless and when he should be thinking and analyzing a situation is likely to be too busy giving himself points for being a good boy and assembling his gun again so fast. We're supposed to navigate our way through a delicate situation here." She took off the towel covering her hair and shook it out a bit. "You're not making it through coffee," she said, standing up. He watched her move off. Just before the door, she let the other towel drop and turned back to him with a smile before closing the door behind her.

He plunged through the door after her, snatched up the towel and threw it in her general direction, not very accurately since he wasn't looking directly at her. "This is intolerable! This is – this is sexual harassment! I will report you to headquarters! I cannot work with you like this!"

She obligingly repositioned the towel. She'd left her cell phone on a table in the short hallway to the bathroom, and picked it up. "That's a very serious allegation," she said, dialing. "The CIA takes these things very seriously."

"What are you doing?"

"Calling my boss. Have to give a heads-up that they'll be hearing from your supervisor at Mossad and we'll need to abort the mission …" Keeping the towel in place with her elbows and dialing the phone was difficult; oops, the darn towel fell. She gave him a moment to pick it up and throw it at her again if he wanted to, but he was staying well out of reach, a look of utter consternation on his face, which, so far, was the most pleasant expression she'd seen from him. She did turn her back to him out of kindness, and the fact that she knew she looked equally lovely from the back, in case her forward charms were ineffective on him, and bent to retrieve the towel herself, letting it dangle from her other hand and sort of cover her. "Hi, David. Yes, Joan. Yes, in Paris. Look, David, I've got…." She let Eyal grab the phone from her, fumble with it for a moment so vigorously she thought he'd break it, and shut it off. "What did you do that for? I'll only have to call him back."

"Perhaps I will not make a report to Mossad. At least, not yet."

"At least, not ever," she said, reaching for her phone. He kept it out of her reach a fraction of a second longer than she could tolerate, and she felt the rush of adrenalin. It's on, then. She feinted, kicked his shin, and then they were into it in earnest. On his side, he was big and strong, but the tightness in him worked against him in this, too, he was lacking fluidity, and telegraphing some of his moves well before they could connect. The narrowness of the hallway was an advantage for her smaller size, as was his being clothed, more to grab onto, and she easily managed to trip him back into the wall. The small table was sacrificed as he came down on it, and he was a complete idiot at leaving his groin open, the natural spot for a woman to attack; she was confident enough to avoid that spot for the time being, because his masculine ego was in for enough of a fall – she was very, very good at hand-to-hand combat in close quarters. The phone fell free; Joan rolled to it, snatched it up, and propelled herself into the bathroom as he lunged at her; she twirled to let her foot fly up and gave him no more than a tickle in his most sensitive spot, just to show that she could, and slammed the door shut.

Ten minutes later, she was not surprised by the knock on the bathroom door, which was barely audible over the hair dryer. She clicked it off and opened the door, now dressed in her bra and panties, both of them, she knew, rather nice, though she'd promised herself to take the time to further enhance her lingerie wardrobe while in the City of Lights. This time, he at least looked through her general direction as he held out his hand, palm up. She deposited the gun piece she had earlier palmed without him noticing, then shut the door.

She didn't know if he had rotated through another round of training exercises or not, but when she emerged fully dressed and ready for the day, she could still hear the clatter of gun pieces being rapidly reassembled; it sounded as if he had even picked up some speed. She passed him silently and sat down on the couch, reading a copy of Vanity Fair she'd picked up at the newsstand at Reagan International before boarding her flight. She thought he might challenge her on it, and she was right.

"Do you do nothing? No training at all?"

"Hm? Sorry. I was reading."

"If you can call that reading. What about reading over your cover file instead?"

"Are you always this much fun, or is this a special occasion? As for my cover file, I have that down pat. Unlike you."

He rattled off all the facts on his cover, rapidly, without pausing, and proceeded to detail hers in the same way. "Very impressive," Joan said. "And completely useless, because no one is going to believe you as a CEO if you walk in that tensely. Anyone with eyes will spot you as the odd man out – and that's probably why you're on this fluffy little mission. Don't play well with your peers? Is that why you've been sent down?"

"I have not been sent down," he said, with ominous quietness.

"So you've been given leadership positions on the expected schedule? Your successes have led you to promotions, or perhaps you requested this and they consider it time off for good behavior? A nice little break to keep your nerves from cracking?"

He did not answer, turning his attention back to the gun pieces. But he didn't start slapping them back together. Instead, he slid a few around the table. For a moment she was reminded of a little boy playing with metal cars, and half expected him to make a "vroom, vroom" sound with his lips. His mouth did not look mean, she thought, but very sensual and warm, even though he was literally biting his lip now, possibly to hold back from saying something in reply. Though her concern was for her mission and its success –and how he might not be promoting that – she couldn't help but feel some compassion for whatever had brought him to this constant state of high alert. To be too serious for the dirty jobs division of Mossad was not an easy feat to accomplish.

When he finally spoke, it was in a quiet, tense way and Joan wasn't sure where it was leading them. "I find your constant probing highly irritating. Your sexually suggestive … hijinks earlier are still intolerable to me. You think, like most Americans and especially American women, that you know everything about everything and you are unafraid to express it, traits I find exasperating. " She looked at him, striving to be neutral in expression. Possibly she shifted slightly to better elevate her breasts in his direction. He slammed the gun pieces back together, seemingly faster than ever, and briefly aimed the completed weapon in her direction. "But you may – may! – have in this one area, a point. " He set down the gun on the table. "I will consider it."

Their first event was a corporate cocktail party, a welcoming event for the convention; he was taking the role of the CEO of a Baltic-region office goods manufacturing company built on paper clips that was hinting it was also capable of providing certain unique aluminum tubes useful in nuclear reactors, and their target was suspected of being a middleman for purchasing such, she was his Vice President of Sales and Marketing. She had already noticed that Eyal's suit was appalling – it was cheap fabric, out of style, badly cut and looked as if it had never been altered to fit him. While that might have been perfect for a former Soviet-bloc executive a few years ago, it was unforgiveable now. His breadth of chest was considerable, and so his dress shirt was stretched tight across his pecs and in danger of popping a button. He looked nothing like a desk-bound office-products CEO, but had a vaguely sleazy, gangsterish air not helped by the fact that his beard apparently grew at about the rate of a mile an hour, giving him a constant five o'clock shadow. Joan sighed. Looking a little suspicious and capable of underhanded dealings might prove useful in this situation, she supposed. And he had managed, perhaps in response to her earlier comments, a false salesman-broad smile on his face which did not reach his eyes. She thought a drink might help and led them to the open bar. He did not take charge of the ordering and actually seemed reluctant to order anything at all, so she finally ordered a martini for herself and heard him pipe up "Soda water" when the barman asked him what he wanted to drink.

"You don't drink?" This was worrying, because it didn't indicate sobriety to her, but more likely a problem drinker trying to stay sober, and thus ready to fall off the wagon at any time, and usually at the worst possible operational moment. It also made him stand out like a vegetarian in Greece; you drink in France, at _cocktail parties_. Those who didn't were instantly more conspicuous, to the barman, to your hosts, to the people around you. You didn't want your mark to take notice of you, and getting your mark drunk beside you was one of the quickest ways to information, or to the many other things also lubricated by liquor that could force a willingness to give that information. They picked up their drinks and began to circle the room.

"Not any longer, no." The answer didn't reassure her as to him being a reformed alcoholic or not.

"Is that a choice or a problem?"

"It's my choice and not your problem."

"I'm sorry but if you're an alcoholic, I'd like to know that before I'm depending on you in the field. And that _is_ my problem."

For a moment he looked at her as if planning an attack or an escape, but there was no option. He realized she was not letting him off. "Two years, six months, and twelve days ago my sister was killed in a terrorist attack in the Golan Heights. I swore I would bring her killer to justice, or, better, kill him myself. On that day, I left medical school, I gave up drink, smoking, my fiancé … everything. Until I exact revenge for her death."

So she _was_ paired with a nut job. Great. Medical school, a surgeon wannabe, no doubt. His big hands and natural arrogance were made for it. The medicos were already detached somewhat from the humanity of the body, and could make good assassins – perfect at those so-called "surgical strikes".

"Did you expect it to take this long?"

"Maybe the smile that started and then was dimssed was a genuine one. He shrugged slightly. "Maybe not."

"Is this what your sister would have wanted?"

"Revenge? Yes. Absolutely. "

"And chastity and temperance? "

"Probably no." She was surprised at this admission; as with his unexpected consideration that she "might have a point" earlier, she realized he must be fundamentally honest, not necessarily a good trait in a spy. They found themselves back at the bar again. Joan glanced around the room. Their targets were still not present, so they had time. "Just the opposite of her," he admitted, wearily.

"So to offset your sister's supposed sins you gave up everything, when no one was asking you to, least of all her." The statement was a risk if he were truly unstable and took it as an insult; she saw him tense, and swallow, before answering. "Sleep well at night?"

"Hardly at all. Did they send you here to do this to me? Dissect my soul? Are you some kind of agency-licensed psychologist?"

Joan laughed. "No, not at all. As a matter of fact, I think they _should_ have given me a psych brief on you ahead of time for my own sanity. But they didn't. This is strictly me acting in an amateur capacity."

"I'm starting to think you aren't much of an amateur at anything." She raised her eyebrows but didn't comment. That might actually be his idea of a compliment. She set down her empty glass on the bar and shimmied onto a seat.

"I'm ordering another drink. Join me. "

"I'm not sure it's that easy."

"Let's see if it is. What did you like to drink?"

"In medical school I had a taste for a Sazerac."

"A Sazerac? What's that? I've never heard of it."

"Absinthe, cognac or whiskey, bitters - If it's done right, it's a show for the bartender. "

" I like that. A drink with a little intrigue to it. From the female perspective, it makes you more interesting, as if there are unplumbed depths beyond that handsome façade."

"Handsome façade? Sure it's not a bombed-out building?" There was a wry smile on his lips, which still left his eyes utterly untouched.

"And can be a little clever with words, too. Yeah, I'm getting more and more sure of that, actually. Bartender? Two Saz – what's?" She flubbed the word and looked at him helplessly to let him buy in. It was a classic ploy and she wondered if he'd forget she wasn't an amateur. He hesitated but then spoke up.

"Sazeracs. " The bartender agreed but didn't look pleased; he was looking for quick pours to keep the crowd happy but he began pulling together the ingredients and chilling the glasses with ice water. Eyal narrated. "First the sugar cubes, and bitters – supposed to be Peychaud's, out of your American town of New Orleans. It originated there. I will concede America is better at bitters. He is chilling the final glasses while he muddles the sugar and bitters, adds ice, then the cognac, here. Then he coats the glasses with the absinthe, or whatever he is using instead – here it is called absinthe though the real thing is still illegal in France – then he transfers over the drink. Then the lemon curl – he _is_ doing them nicely…"

"Two Sazeracs." The bartender announced, setting them down. The event was a free bar but Eyal put down a generous tip, probably to avoid touching the drink for a few instants longer. He looked at the glass in front of him like it was a small swimming pool full of sin.

"L'chaim," Joan said, and raised her glass, bumping him out of his reverie with her elbow. Like an unmet handshake, she wondered how long he would leave her dangling with her glass stuck up in the air. Finally, some sense of chivalry prevailed and he picked up his glass and did the same.

"L'chaim," he repeated, then translated. " To life," taking the first sip.

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	2. Chapter 2

I.

Their quarries had never shown up that first evening, but the following night was a awards dinner and dance which their quarries were likely to attend. Joan was making it clear that _she _would not be likely to attend unless the ill-fitting rental tux that had just arrived was properly fitted.

"I'm telling you, it will be fine."

Joan sighed with exasperation. "If the suit you wore to cocktails is any indication, it will _not_ be fine. This is a formal awards dinner; you just can't look that out of place. The label shows the shop it came from. You and I are going down there right now for a session of emergency tux tailoring."

"I am not going to stand there like a fool while some tailor feels me up!"

"Actually, that is _exactly_ what you are going to do. "

"Try. Just try." This tack was not working.

"So you're just a field guy, you have no interest in managing intelligence assets yourself, then."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"Plenty. How do you figure out who will be a good asset, if their intel will be reliable, all of that. "

"I'm not going to play this game with you."

"_If_ you know it, tell me." He saw something fierce in her face and relented.

"You meet with them, assess their attitude, check out their story, see what they're about, find out what they may have access to, their strengths, what benefit they can bring you…" He was actually looking at his fingers and counting them off. Joan flung herself back onto the couch and angled her legs in the air.

"Meet two of my assets, Eyal."

"This again, Joan? Really?"

"I'm perfectly serious, Eyal. Like it or not, I know that these legs can get me information that might not be given up to someone else. " She high-kicked off one of her shoes and in a trademarked move, caught it by the strap mid-air between her toes. "I know I've got a good body, so I dress it to advantage, as an asset, as a weapon of distraction, as a way of announcing that I'm one of the "Beautiful People" and so you better let me in without the necessary credentials or there will be hell to pay, all of it. My arms are also excellent, but realistically, there aren't many arm fetishists out there. On the negative side, I also know that my ass is adequate, but not my best feature, and my breasts are one cup size smaller than the most popular."

"Both of those are actually just fine," he mumbled, looking away.

"Thank you. But not world-class. My legs are." She lowered them from the air. "You're a classically handsome tall dark and dangerous-looking man. If you ignore all that as an asset, and fail to make the most of it, you're giving away the game to the opposition. So get over yourself, let me get you decently dressed, and at least then you'll have the suit measurements you can use for years to come, barring you letting yourself get fat and out of shape."

"Not a chance. There is no way out of this for me, is there?"

"None whatsoever. Let's go."

II.

He put up with it pretty well . At the end, she moved around the kneeling tailor and adjusted his tie slightly and stood back. The man was born to wear a tux, and though Joan hated to admit it, he took her breath away. He was a beautiful male, just at the beginning of his best years of maturity, now properly and perfectly adorned. She was rather proud of herself. "Do you see the difference?" An hour before he had stood there in the same tux, slouching, with the tailor going "Tsk, tsk" and looking like he was about to climb a mountain of alterations.

"Yes," he admitted. "I do."

"Like what you see?"

"Yes. "

"I think we've managed "tall dark and dangerous" quite well." She approached him again, ran her hand over his chin. He winced but didn't bat away her hand, at least. "Maybe a little _too_ dangerous. Didn't you just shave?"

"Lasts about an hour forty minutes."

"Next on the list then: electrolysis."

"No!" That was vehement.

"Relax, I'm joking. Technically, teasing."

III.

This time, they were luckier. Even before entering the hotel, Joan spotted the daughter off to one side, dressed beautifully and laughing raucously while apparently smoking with a few of the waiters by a side service door. Well, they had her type down now. They circulated around the edges of the crowded ballroom floor. "Do you dance?" she asked, expecting a negative and wishing she had asked earlier as they stood at the edge of the floor. Their targets, an industrialist and his daughter and heir were directly across from them and she suspected they were about to do a daddy-daughter pairing on the dance floor.

"Absolutely."

She almost suspected him of lying – it seemed out of character for him -, but then he took her onto the floor and she could tell from the first instant that he knew exactly what he was doing. He smiled over her shock. "My parents danced professionally," he explained. "and as kids, they made us do it – not just ballroom, but folk dance, all that kind of thing. My brother and I even competed."

"So you _are_ a man of secrets," she laughed. A childhood spent dressed up was also probably the reason behind his rebellion against properly-fitting clothing now. She was a more than adequate dancer, but with him, his expertise added several levels to her own, and she also relished the fact that she could surrender to his guidance and completely relax for a few moments, other than regularly noting the location of their quarry, who had not yet entered the dance floor. She sensed that he was also being intelligent enough to keep it a bit in check; they were dancing well, but not ostentatiously so. But just well enough, she noticed, to have caught the daughter's eye. Maybe she wasn't so anxious to have Daddy as her sole dance partner tonight. "Check out the girl. She's eyeing you, Eyal."

"We'll time it so we end near them. Should I simply ask her to dance or chat her up first? "

" Either way, I don't think she'll turn you down. I'll see what I can do with Daddy – abandoned, he may turn to me for some consolation. For my part, I'll look a bit jealous over you for realism. I'm the mere hopeful colleague, after all, about to be thrown over for the heiress."

"Nonsense. That's completely untrue. The truth is, you _will _be genuinelyjealous over losing me."

"Maybe," she conceded, letting him be confident. Right now, in this mood, he would be nearly irresistible. Or highly annoying. For the mission's sake, she hoped the former.

Joan danced with the industrialist while Eyal wheeled around the floor with his daughter; the father's attention was mainly on the girl as she fought her way through, of all things, a tango. Joan managed to pull his attention back to her , but this was so difficult enough to do that she wondered if he was already suspicious of Eyal and his designs on Daughter or, worse for her purposes, closeted and gay and checking out the Mossad agent himself. Not likely – Mossad briefings usually covered everything in extraordinary detail, and any known less common sexual preferences of their targets would have been revealed. He was an adequate dancer but she missed the fluidity she had so briefly experienced with Eyal. As a foursome, they then polished off sufficient champagne; finally, the daughter begged leave from her father to go to a club she knew with Eyal as her escort, leaving Joan with Daddy for an uncomfortable half-hour until he pointedly offered to escort her home and let her demur and catch a taxi instead.

IV.

After a shower, Joan poured herself the last of the bottle of wine they had shared over lunch; it was 3am and Eyal, she was confident, would not be back until well after dawn, if then. She'd connect with him on his plans and somehow follow up with Daddy herself during the day; so far the conversation could not be guided into the subtleties they needed to explore, but that would come. She sat on the couch and glanced at the newspaper from the morning for a few minutes. She was so startled by a sound at the door that she got her gun and moved to one side, on full defense. But the door opened and it was Eyal, who spotted her at nearly the same instant.

"So you _are_ the jealous type." Joan put aside her weapon.

"I didn't expect you back tonight. Things looked like they were moving along quite cosily."

"Yes. They were. "

"They were?"

"They are. They are moving along fine, just fine."

"But you're back so early," Joan blurted, regretting it. He spun back toward her with his brows furrowed in anger. Joan felt her heart rate slightly accelerate. She held back the fight or flight response.

"So I'm supposed to immediately take her to bed, is that it? I'm not keeping to schedule?"

"No – I just – I was surprised, that's all."

"Well, don't be."

He strode through the living room area and into his room. She waited for the slam, but he restrained himself and it closed with a soft click.

What the hell was that about? Joan wondered if she should call her boss; an irate Eyal was hardly the pathway they needed for either the daughter or Daddy, and Daddy wasn't warming up that much to her. She decided to probe a little farther, waiting a few minutes for him to get himself settled. She especially hoped he was gentle on taking off the tux. When she thought enough time had elapsed, she knocked on his door. She half expected him not to open it and conduct a conversation through it, but he swung it open, wearing just shorts. Unless their conversation had aroused him, he was in a pretty bad state over the girl. Or just years of frustration were finally overtaking him.

"Eyal, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, or _"

"The apology is mine. You have every right to know where our operation is going, and what is being accomplished. I am very sorry. I should not be losing my temper with you. You have done nothing wrong. I am the one failing here."

"Eyal, I don't think you're failing. You can time this however you think is best."

"I'm not doing that, Joan. This is not something logistical. I certainly could have gone home with her. It's what she wanted. But I – I couldn't even kiss her goodnight." That shocked Joan, and it must have shown in her face. This _was_ shaping up to be an operational problem, but she tried to keep it light.

"A girl like that, playing hard to get may be the most fascinating thing you could do," she said, not believing a word of it.

"I'm not playing hard to get. I am playing impossible to get. The thought of kissing her disgusted me. Nauseated me. I was lucky to extract myself before that was so obvious; I pretended I had an emergency overseas phone call. That will work exactly once."

"Oh."

"Indeed." At the moment, he looked most disgusted with himself.

"You honestly find her disgusting?" She was pretty enough, young and dumb and rich; pretty much every man's dream and an easy conquest for their situation.

"She's pretty, I can see that, I responded to her, to her flirting with me, I just could not bring myself to touch her. "

"Why do you think that is?" Joan probed, as gently as she could.

"I do not know!" He raised his arms over his head, slapped the top of the doorframe in frustration. Joan, inches away, could almost hear the sound of his perfectly-developed muscles contracting, and the air between them was filled with the invisible pheromones of a potent and sexually-excited male. Who was, unfortunately for Joan, completely disgusted by women. His arms dropped. "I do know. The last woman I kissed was my fiancée. I never thought I would kiss another woman's lips, not like that. And to go from that moment, on our last night together - the next day, my sister was dead - to this little … I am sorry, little _slut_, with me … no other word for it, and me, no better, nothing but whoringaround for my country … "

Oh boy, Joan thought. "Come on," Joan said. "Let's talk about this." Oddly meek, Eyal followed her back into the living room area where he flopped himself down on the couch, taking up all of it with his long limbs flowing over the edges, completely open and apparently unaware or uncaring that he was putting himself on near-full display; his shorts were not leaving much of anything for her imagination to fill in. She drew her attention away from his powerful thighs and beautifully-modeled stomach and chest and found another glass to split the wine in her glass with him. To her surprise, he reached to click his glass with her; he seemed to have accepted they were a team, after all.

"Do you not need a notepad?" he said. They had accidentally assembled themselves into something close to the clichéd patient-on-couch, psychiatrist-in-chair configuration. As she had noticed before, when he was tense, he lost his contractions -and his accent strengthened.

"Don't know if we want this on the record, do we?"

"No. Not at all. " He drank some of his wine. "Now would be the time for the Sazerac, but this will have to do."

"We'll get in supplies for that tomorrow, if it will help. "

"That part _was_ easy."

"You were relatively simple to lead astray in that area, yes."

"You must think I am insane and a terrible liability."

"I don't think you're insane, but driven, and you've had to cope with something no one should have to endure. As for liability – I won't bullshit you, this narrows our options and makes this mission a little harder to handle. The idea of our team was that at least one of us would connect with one of them and both of our agencies would share the intel; but I can up the ante with the father to compensate. I have ver y specific career plans for myself – when I do leave the field I intend it to be right into a nice corner office and some real power. I'm not going to let this or any mission fail. There's not a lot of natural chemistry between Daddy and me so far, but I'll make it work."

"We both know it is a matter of making _me_ work. "

"Realistically we can't count on that," she said, bluntly, to see if she could make him react to the sense of challenge. So far, he had actually responded fairly well to straight talk. His eyes flashed but he said nothing. " Sexual issues like these can take time to work through, and, unfortunately, it's not something that can just be solved with Viagra," she went on, realizing that he probably had been fully briefed on this potential aspect of the case, and had chosen to keep quiet with his bosses, of course – though again, Mossad generally knew their operatives inside and out and it was a surprise he would have been thrown into the deep end on this one. In any case, the reality was proving more than his heart could handle. "We have the length of this conference and that's not very long."

"We may have more than that. Daughter was chatting about the cruise she and her father are taking on their yacht, and how very boring that sounds as there will be no one interesting on board. They embark right after the conference is over."

"Oh really?" Joan's own interest perked up. A Mediterranean island cruise would give her a lovely tan.

"If that is still in play, after tonight."

"I think it will be. Otherwise we'll have to stage an amazing coincidence at one of the ports."

"Not so amazing. I mentioned I am a sailor and we talked boats for some time. I can claim I was inspired."

"You're a sailor?"

"I was … "

"…but you gave that up too."

"I was going to say, I was, an avid one. My father had a boat, but he sold it right after … well after. One day I'll have another, one of my own."

"Sorry."

"Understandable." He downed the rest of the wine in his glass. "I thought _she'd_ understand,' he said, much more quietly. Joan waited. She wasn't sure if he meant the girl or his fiancée, and didn't want to get it wrong. "But she didn't. Said she felt she didn't know me at all, that how could I, as a doctor, or nearly one, someone meant to be saving lives, could go off seeking revenge, to be a man of violence, worse, to want to be one. And I realized I didn't know her, either, because I genuinely thought she would look me in the eyes with pride and send me off to do battle and wait for me to return." So Eyal Levin was a romantic – of the worst kind. A hopeful one who expected the rest of the world to accommodate his quixotic adventures. " It's worse than that though," he added.

"How so?" What now? Joan thought.

"What you said to me. Was I getting promotions? Leadership roles? This is the third mission in a row where I have been put into a position where, for various reasons, I personally am unusually likely to fail. I made my way through the last two, successfully, doing whatever I had to do to make it work. But Mossad does not repeatedly mismatch agents to tasks like that – unless they want a reason to detach an agent permanently. On both of those tasks, I was alone – no one else to accidentally get killed if I failed, low-level situations – and now, on this one, I am here with you."

"But this time, another agent_ is_ involved." He might not be being paranoid; she'd seen the same thing happen inside her own agency. She felt her own heart rate rise slightly; was that why _she_ was on this assignment? Was someone trying to take her down a peg or two, after an almost unbroken record of major successes, knowing that in this particular instance, her Mossad partner wouldn't be up to the task and might be a crippling liability?

"Ah, but to Mossad, you do not count, Joan. You are from a rival agency. They have no investment in you. And the fact you are a woman – when, somewhere in my file, there are probably some notes on my complete lack of observed normal relations with women - ." He opened his hands as if presenting a _fait accompli_. "Another reason for me to be likely to fail." Yet facing the facts seemed to have re-energized him. He finally shifted and sat up so he was not quite so on display, though he did lock his fingers together and stretch himself, letting Joan watch is nearly flawless musculature flex from a few feet away. Some of the desperate despair had lifted. "I must find a way around this. And I will. You are good to talk with, Joan. You are an honorable and intelligent woman."

"Glad to be of help. I hope I am. But now, we'd better get some sleep. We've got that meeting in the morning. "


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning they shared breakfast on the narrow terrace overlooking the steep rooftops of Paris, pressed into frail wire-frame chairs jammed against a tiny marble tabletop. It was an odd enforced intimacy. One stray elbow , Joan noted, and the coffee press would go over the railing. He had skipped his morning exercises, or had done them so early she had missed the show. She had the sense that neither of them had slept too well after their middle-of-the-night conversation. Now it was getting into the later morning but neither of them were too eager to get to the conference site– and besides, they'd yet to see their targets in any of the presentations. Most of the real business was taking place far from the meeting halls.

Eyal's phone buzzed. He looked at the number, flashed the name at Joan, and answered. "How lovely to hear from you – yes, last night was lovely …" Joan watched him frown at himself at using "lovely" again. "Would you like to get together tonight? Oh, that's too bad. Umhm. No, that sounds l-wonderful. Saturday night then."

He clicked the phone shut, momentarily triumphant, then briefly terrified, and then he turned back to breakfast.

At least the conference room had windows, Joan thought, as the meeting with two buyers for an upscale office-supplies chain based in Barcelona dragged on. But she had to stay attentive; somehow she and Eyal had slipped into a competition on how well they knew their office-goods cover stories and were firing descriptions and statistics back and forth in front of their "clients", a meeting arising out of a casual elevator conversation which would have been strange for them to turn down.

"In addition, we recently fully retooled and installed a massive amount of new, powerful equipment, and increased the capacity of our manufacturing facility by over 20%."

"This retooling brought us up to truly international standards, and moreover, we offer unparalleled flexibility for unique designs and finishes," she parried.

"Truly, it is the most exciting time since our company was founded by my grandfather in 1952."

"As we think you'll agree, we are the best choice for your paper clip, spring clip, and metal office equipment needs."

"Of course, if you desire, we also provide a complete line of metal filing cabinets, two-door heavy-duty metal storage cabinets, wire shelving, including our immensely popular PR-1700 line. If it is made of aluminum or steel, we can fabricate it."

Product numbers you want, buster? "And we're especially proud of our new Executrix 3000 line of office products aimed at the rising female professional, with ergonometric features and finger-friendly finishes catering to women's hands and sense of design."

The two buyers across the table looked at each other and at the faked catalog in front of them. "This is very impressive, and, frankly, I don't think there is any question that we want to go with you to enhance our new fall catalog. Our initial order will be in the range of two million U.S, and we will need confirmation of delivery date by next month….."

Eyal and Joan sat there, stunned.. Eyal recovered first.

"That's fantastic," he said, rising to his feet and shaking hands all around. "Joan..." She sprang to her feet.

"I'll contact headquarters and arrange for an initial deal memo to be drawn up immediately."

Smiles. A promise to meet later.

Eyal and Joan escaped in silence down the hallway, Eyal swinging his briefcase, looking like a much more realistic CEO now.

"Well, I didn't expect that to happen," Joan said.

"Me neither. Excellent job. I think you swayed them with the Women's Line. "Finger-friendly finishes". Outstanding."

"Well, that's why you made me your Vice President of Sales and Marketing."

"Another one of my many brilliant business decisions."

"I guess now we call our handlers and find out of our respective agencies really want to go into the office goods business? Two million in seed money is not a minor thing."

"Unfortunately, now they may expect all of our missions to end with a profit, like the Chinese Navy. It's lunchtime. Come, Joan." They entered the convention-center restaurant, put in for a table, and took seats at the nearly-full bar. Since it was France, even a convention-center restaurant was not a bad choice. With a shrug of apology, he ordered them Sazeracs. "Not the best drink for daylight, but I am glad to have been reintroduced to them by you." They arrived and they clicked glasses. "To office goods, Joan."

She raised her glass and repeated "To office goods." but what she didn't expect was a brief, firm pat of her hand from his free one before he swiftly retracted it, apparently realizing that he had just _voluntarily and unnecessarily touched a woman_. She smiled at him ever so slightly more and then looked away. Men. Give them a little success and things shifted, even a fake office goods sale seemed to have seriously raised the confidence - and if she wasn't a complete fool - the libido of her companion.

"At least we know we have career opportunities beyond our agencies if we fall afoul of them," she said lightly, looking back to him.

"Yes, we'll always have Pa-"

"Paris?" She completed the famous phrase.

"Paperclips, I was going to say, but Paris too." She laughed and realized it was her most flirty, throaty laugh, not quite what she intended to use on Eyal. Fortunately, at that moment their table was called, and they both settled down to focus on the menu and then the food. From the way he looked at his steak when it finally arrived, she wondered if he'd also given up decent dining during his period of asceticism. Which, she noted with satisfaction, now seemed to be ending. She supposed she should not be taking such pleasure in the corruption of the young - he was after all her junior, by only a few years or so - but still.

At that moment Joan's phone was the one to buzz; Langley. She excused herself and after a few minutes on the line, came back to the table feeling as if she had just been hit hard in the stomach and not knowing quite why. "I'm being recalled," she said. The look she associated with "terror" on him returned. "Can't share the details, but I need to go cope with an asset problem. It will keep me out of this permanently; I'm told you'll be matched with a new operative from our side soon. I've got a flight out tomorrow morning."

The rest of their lunch passed in strained silence, and they finally parted, Eyal wanting to return to the hotel and go for a run, and she pretended she wanted to see the Louvre. But she knew it was her last chance to do the one personal thing she had promised herself to do on this trip- go to buy French lingerie. So she found herself staring at her reflection in the mirror at Carine Gilson's ; the shop specialized in pure silks and handmade French laces. One part of her felt ridiculous, made more so by the tiny bird-like Frenchwoman who was assisting her, adjusting her, bringing her other temptations. And everything was at least triple the mental cost estimate she had made beforehand. When would she wear this? More to the point, for whom would she wear this? Briefly, she wondered if she could realistically expense it against the agency, but didn't want the discussion – had she been allowed to stick around to work on seducing the industrialist, she just might have been able to submit it. If only she had done her shopping a day earlier!

The saleswoman misunderstood or pretended to misunderstand her concern over price, thinking she didn't care for the color, and as Joan looked at herself in the café-colored silk, she hastened up with the peach, rouge et noir. They were all beautiful, and Joan had to admit her breasts and body had never looked more enticing. But then, she would also need traditional stockings for the garters, and panties – were the ones the saleslady were handing her actually crotchless? "Tres convenient," the saleslady told her. Joan was just reaching the moment when she would take it all off, apologize to the saleslady, and go someplace cheaper or abandon the effort entirely – when her phone rang. She bent to get her phone from her bag, surprised by the excellent view of herself from behind in a strategically placed and re-reflected mirror. On the phone, she saw it was Eyal, and the interruption of her private little fantasy world by something potentially messy annoyed her. It was her romantic problems she wanted to work on at that moment, not his. She frowned as she answered, surprised at her own thought – did she think _she_ had romantic problems? She loved her free, sexy life! And he was probably _calling about the mission, Joan_, of which she was still a part for a few more hours. Romantic Paris – or the warm, softly-lit, scented lingerie shop - had made mush of her mind.

"Yes?"

"Joan?"

"Yes, this is Joan."

"This is Eyal." Well, so far they had gotten through all the information which had already been provided by the very act of using their cell phones. There was a long pause which she finally broke. Maybe the connection was bad on his end, or all the electrically-sensitive silk and satin surrounding her was affecting the signal somehow.

"Yes, Eyal?"

"Joan. It has become – it has occurred to me that this is your last night in Paris."

"Yes…"

"And that, due to the schedule as it stands, with our targets otherwise engaged, we both have the evening at liberty." The saleswoman, who supposedly spoke no English, now seemed to be following every word just fine, smiling as she continued to hold the padded satin hangers with various other choices at shoulder-height.

"Yes, that's true, we do."

"Yes. " The next pause was shorter, at least. "Joan, I would be very delighted if you would permit – allow – me to take you to dinner this evening. And then…." His voice drifted off.

"And then?"

"See where the … where the rest of the evening takes us." She knew what that meant. Without thinking she had taken the phone away from her ear and was pressing it against her chest. As she realized it, she wondered if he had been able to hear her heartbeat and hoped not, because right now, it was much too fast and the dressing room much too warm. She put her thumb over the microphone grid. "I'm being asked to dinner," she said to the saleswoman. "It is a man who is entirely wrong for me, who is difficult and challenged, dangerous to my career and utterly unsuitable for any future at all. And it won't be just for dinner, either. "

"D'accord. Mais il est tres beau. Tres attractif?"

"How do you possibly know that?"

"Votre coeur. " The saleswoman set aside the many hangers and touched Joan's wrist, where Joan realized there was a visible vibration of her pulse. The saleswoman also pulled out a scented handkerchief and patted Joan's nose, probably before a drop of sweat could fall onto the still-unsold corset. Then she reached for the glass of sparkling water and offered it to Joan, nodding as she did so. Eyal was still silent. So he was a man who knew the power of letting silence stand, too.

Joan swallowed the water.

"Eyal?" she said softly into the phone.

"Yes, Joan?"

"That would be nice." Nice! She couldn't come up with anything better to say than "Nice"? Well, at least she hadn't said, "Yeah, fine!" or "OK!"

She could hear him breathe out against the phone. If he'd been holding his breath, it had been for quite a time.

"Excellent. I will make the necessary arrangements. I'll send a car for you and we'll meet in the lobby of the Palais hotel. We will make it early, 6pm. There is something I want to do before dinner that I think you will enjoy, Joan."

"Will this be a ….formal occasion? What should I wear?" The saleswoman perked up, nodding and elevating a couple of hangers again.

"I hope we will not be standing on formalities – but I will be wearing the tuxedo you so kindly perfected for me."

"That's helpful. I will see you then."

"Till then, Joan." She clicked off the phone. She watched her mirror image doing the same, and tested out a few more angles in the mirror. "I'll take this," Joan told the saleswoman. "In all the colors."

Back at the apartment, sidling in through the door with too many packages, Joan regretted her impulse buys. With the exception of the one set she had been wearing at the time he called, she packed them immediately at the bottom of her suitcase. No need for him to know she had gone quite so wild … not that it mattered. "It is not a date, Joan," she told herself, actually speaking the words out loud and then making a quick double-check to make sure he had not returned to the apartment. "It is an exercise-slash-therapy session where, if all goes well, a very troubled man may end up deciding that you do not actively disgust him sexually and he will then attempt to use you for _practice_." She let that statement – which was perfectly true – sink into her subconscious. Whatever the course of the evening, it would have very little to do with her and everything to do with his own turmoil, guilt, and frustrations. So there was no reason on earth for her to be even slightly nervous. She would strive for an air of amused indulgence, she decided.

Yet, if she were going to adhere to absolute honesty as her guideline tonight, she was both a bit nervous and a bit unnerved, and she had a close-to-a-twelve-hundred-Euro undeductible receipt in her purse to prove it. The truth was, she did want his powerful body, wanted to see what all that pent-up passion could bring to her, wanted to experience the sense of power in freeing him from his lingering inhibitions, even wanted to simply win out over the little nymphet for a moment – she was even still a little jealous over the tango the girl had giggled through. Ooh, maybe they'd go dancing tonight, too. Joan frowned at her inner voice slipping that thought in. Apparently her own internal giggly nymphet was all too alive and well where Eyal Levin was concerned. She went and showered and did her hair up, a bit more severely than she intended, but it would do to help tame that irritating nymphet voice.

The car came as arranged and took her to the Palais. He kept her waiting for a few minutes, and she wondered if it were intentional, accidental, or if he had perished from fright. But no; there he was moving swiftly and confidently through the lobby, and, she noted, he did have a single rose for her, of a shade that could be seen either as a less-committed deep pink or a more typical and traditional red, depending on the light.

"Joan, I'm so sorry I'm late…" he said, handing her the rose, and he moved so easily toward her, it would look to any observer that it was the thousandth time he had kissed her cheek, not the first. He was wearing cologne and was, for the moment at least, clean-shaven, his cheek briefly smooth against hers. "You look – stunning, " he said, taking her hands, looking at her with full attention and appreciation, at her dress, her hair, everything about her.

Stunning was a good word, she liked it, and smiled. "Thank you." So far, so good. Could he do it? Could he really completely change gears and operating tactics so dramatically? If he were a good, experienced agent in the field, he could – you had to in order to survive- but his prickly tension seemed so ingrained in him, she had doubted it. But as a handsome young Jewish medical student in Israel, he must have had plenty of opportunities to perfect _these_ skills prior to settling in with his fiancée. Maybe she _was_ in for a charming and pleasurable evening. Unless, of course, that same deadly combination of traits had made him so devastating to the opposite sex he had found it completely unnecessary to learn anything additional about pleasing a woman at all…

"We must go … but there is champagne waiting for us." He guided her by the elbow; he did not seem daunted by touching her so far, at least. Once in the car the driver took them through the inner streets before ending up on the Lille road. "We're leaving Paris?"

"Only for a little while. " He smiled at her as if he had a pleasant secret in store for her. They drove on and the sun was just deciding to really start to descend and set for the evening when a movement in the sky caught her attention at the same moment the car pulled to a stop. In the field beyond, she saw a team of men just inflating a huge multi-colored hot air balloon. She laughed as she watched it slowly rising into life.

"No fear of heights, I trust."

"None." She was much more concerned at the stony field they needed to cross to reach the launch site. He assisted her , but her satin-heeled shoes and slim evening dress, even with its thigh-high slit freeing her legs, were not ideal for this terrain. "You'll ruin them," he commented, and gathered her up into his arms, carrying her the short distance over the field depositing her inside the basket before climbing in himself. The operator was a wine-nosed older Frenchman who looked at them approvingly and provided them with glasses of champagne. Eyal downed his rather quickly – perhaps he was the one with a bad head for heights, she thought. She sipped at hers as he moved to stand behind her . "My intended specialty in medical school was neurosurgery," he said, conversationally. "The brain"– here he touched the back of her head and then lightly ran a finger down her vertebrae- "and spine, and the nervous system have always fascinated me. One thing I found very interesting is what unexpected vestibular stimulation, such as a hot air balloon ascending, affecting the balance, does to the body - how we respond with some fear, and yet simultaneously crave the new stimulus. It arouses the fight or flight mechanisms and that overflows into the entire body, enhancing sensitivity." The balloon started to rise, with a little shake. She understood what he meant, though she wasn't quite sure why she was getting the science lecture, feeling her body respond to the unaccustomed motion of the balloon. It was her first time in a balloon, but she wasn't going to admit that. He was standing very close behind her now. Was she imagining that he was aroused? They were touching so lightly she could not be sure. His hands moved around her waist and his thumbs found and rested against her navel and his hands cupped against her nearly concave stomach, his little fingertips lightly pressing against a spot in her lower belly, far from any area she would have said she found erogenous. Yet those tiny motions from his fingertips were creating a neural storm all their own, an odd sense of fullness and anticipation in an area she did not expect to respond. "I know where every nerve in your body begins and ends, Joan," he whispered in her ear, nuzzling her neck as she gazed out at the countryside going golden in the rays of the sun. "And what they do along the way. Better than you know yourself, Joan." There was no question what was pressing gently but firmly against her back now. Her stomach muscles were tense and she was breathing deeply against those oddly delicate motions over what she now was realizing must be the not-so-mythical G-spot. They were still ascending, the operator sending up an occasional startling burst of flame from the burners above which forced the balloon upward. "And of course, the body also responds to swift changes in orientation …" For an instant, she thought he was throwing her over the side of the basket; all she could see was the air between herself and the ground far below. Double agent! she thought. Assassin! But she could not get footing to launch a counter attack. Her champagne glass went over the side –the operator looked alarmed and cried out. Then Eyal twisted her back around, pressed his lips to her mouth and his own body against that artfully stimulated spot, leaving her contracting against him and gasping against his shoulder when he finally released her from that kiss.

"I think the lady would appreciate some more champagne now," he said to the operator.

"The lady would indeed," she echoed.

The balloon landed far from the launching spot, settling gently on the ground. The car had driven to meet them, along with a truck carrying the balloon crew. It was nearly dusk now; the glow in the sky from the lights of Paris was just visible over the low hills. Eyal helped her out of the basket and she thanked the operator, who touched his cap in salute to her.

"That was wonderful, Eyal, " she said as she returned to the vehicle.

"I hoped you would enjoy it." He settled himself beside her, a bit closer than the size of the large back seat would require. "I've attempted to fully plan out a lovely evening, Joan. Actually, my only concern is that we have a fairly long car trip ahead of us to return to Paris and our restaurant – it's nearly dark now and the countryside is invisible. I am very much hoping you will not find it tedious and boring."

"After the excitement of the balloon ride? I think I can endure a short break."

"Are you sure about that, Joan? You are not on, perhaps feeling some discomfort?" What on earth was he getting at? "Or some lingering - disorientation from the descent?" His hand slid through the high slit in her dress, all too conveniently placed on his side. "Perhaps a bit of anxiety or – tension that needs to be relieved? Possibly you've begun to perspire – or otherwise be uncomfortably – moist." His head bent to kiss her lips simultaneously; good grief, he really was moving in for the kill; she supposed the motion of the car also counted as the "vestibular stimulation" he discussed earlier and his comment about moisture – was he proposing licking her clean? "You know the drink I favor, the Sazerac, comes from New Orleans, where I attended a conference during medical school … they have a phrase there _lagniappe_, a little something extra, a bonus, an appetizer…." His hand slid over the top edge of her stockings and came to a dead halt on the garter; the kissing stopped too. Uh-oh, Joan thought- I just ran into one of his unknown inhibitions, he's terrified by women's old-fashioned silk stockings and garters. Oh god, maybe his _mother_ wore them.

Not quite. "What's this?" he asked. The headlights from a passing car briefly illuminated his face; he had an expression of something like wonder, certainly not disgust. Yet he was still pulling away from her. He settled back on the seat, suddenly not so close, chuckling a bit nervously. "You are a woman of many surprises, Joan. I did not expect that…."

"I took advantage of my free time this afternoon to do some shopping. That's what I was doing when you called me."

"So you, you bought these to wear for me," he said softly.

"That wasn't quite my plan…. But yes. Though I didn't expect them to be quite such a show-stopper, Eyal."

"I'm sorry," he apologized, and leaned in to kiss her briefly but still kept his distance. "It's just – I have thoroughly planned this evening, in precise steps and stages…and, well, the thought of this silk and lace and stockings on you, part of me wants very much to abandon my plans…. and… skip ahead. " Joan thought for a moment. The choice seemed to be between making passionate love on the back seat of the car now, or strengthening his resolve to stick to his "plan". "Plan" doubtless included dinner reservations at someplace fine, perhaps the dancing she craved, and a more leisurely approach to lovemaking later; she also just didn't quite feel like giving in to him this early in the evening.

"Well, I'm not sure how it is with Mossad, but generally, our agency protocol is to adhere to plan, especially if it has been wisely laid out and there is no _overwhelming_ pressure to abandon it. Let's get back to that lagniappe, shall we?"

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	4. Chapter 4

As they drove through Paris, Joan was enchanted with the sight of the illuminated Tower but was surprised when it became apparent their destination was the tower itself – more specifically, a private elevator leading to the platform where the Restaurant Jules Verne awaited; she had not been aware that there was a place to dine in the famous tower. Eyal was smiling at her pleasure. "This is all right then?"

"Absolutely." They were guided to a table for two by the windows; around them were the struts of the tower itself. "You do like high places, don't you?"

"Cultural thing. When in doubt, go up the mountain – or the equivalent. You do really like it?" There was something endearing about his concern; he wanted to make sure the gift he'd selected was acceptable. "I do."

"There were fancier places, but I've always had an interest in Jules Verne and I wanted to come here. I read all his books as a boy."

Ah. That was it. This was a personal choice for him, not necessarily something selected just for her, and so he was busy doubting himself and distrusting his heart. During the same childhood period, she'd been busy reading Nancy Drew and Amelia Walden in those years, but she'd made her way through a couple of Verne's books. The balloon idea probably had come from the same source, whether or not Eyal himself realized it. '"Around the World in Eighty Days? 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea?"

"Exactly. Though I've since been on a submarine, and it was not nearly as fascinating as Verne made it out to be."

"I suspect it is more fun when you're the absolute master of it, like Captain Nemo." He smiled, slightly embarrassed and she knew she'd hit the mark; Nemo would have been his favorite of course – dark, tormented and caught up in solitude, even eerily foreshadowing his own loss. As they chatted, she realized that somehow they had moved from the madly erotic - she shifted slightly in her chair, recalling the rest of the ride from the balloon landing spot, the feeling of grasping his hair in her fingers as the car sped through the night - to the innocence of late childhood; she had never expected him to be so varied and entertaining and real; he was actually _fun_. Not for the first time, Joan found herself pulling back, trying to contain herself, repeating and expanding the litany that went _this is not a date, this is not romantic, this is not a man I could ever become involved with, this is not anything to do with me…_

In a very Nemo-like way, taking full charge of the ship again, Eyal commanded that champagne be brought.

After dinner they went to the next platform in the tower and enjoyed a still higher view before descending to ground level once more. Joan wondered what was next; the evening was still young, and yet, she would not mind it shifting to the night ahead. The car, which he had obviously engaged for the evening, was waiting; after assisting them into the car, the driver started up without waiting for an address. Joan suppressed her curiosity; they did not seem to be heading back to the apartment but into an older, somewhat run down section of Paris. She was surprised when the car stopped and they got out onto a cobblestoned street. She looked at him questioningly. He said nothing, the slightest of smiles on his face, and touched his ear. She listened. In the distance, she caught a wavering bit of music, and it thrilled her blood. He took her firmly by the arm – that would help with the cobblestones – and led her down an alleyway where an open door spilled light and music, flowing out from what appeared to be, by the few men and women outside getting a bit of fresh air, an authentic milonga.

"How did you know?" she asked, truly surprised that he had penetrated this little secret of hers.

"There's something I must tell you, Joan," he said, looking at her with utter seriousness, and lowered his lips to her ear. "I'm a spy." She laughed. " I've had special training in watching people's emotions; I saw your body react to the tango music the other night – and how much you would have preferred that we have that dance together. As, needless to say, would've I." Joan was disappointed in herself; if Eyal had noted that, surely the industrialist had as well – if she had been visibly tracking Eyal so longingly that could have been a reason they had not connected. Bad spycraft, Joan, and bad self-control, she told herself, and then completely put those thoughts aside. The club inside was tight, chairs and tiny tables jammed against the walls. A few patrons were well-dressed, as she and Eyal were, and two or three couples were obviously professionals, but many of the crowd were typical Argentinians of all ages, from young to very old, pulled together by the love of the music and the dance. She recognized the strains of Milonga Triste, which she knew until now only from the soundtrack of The Tango Lesson . She abandoned her purse and wrap on a table and Eyal took hold of her.

The coolness of the air on her face was almost as pleasurable as the last dance; it was growing late when they stepped back out into the alley. Beyond the short illuminated area of where the light spilled onto the pavement, Eyal suddenly drew her aside pressed her up into an alcove; the much-too-public passionate kiss would not normally be her thing, but it was just fine with her now. He gazed at her face and then commenced to kiss her hungrily. The pressurized restraint and fiery energy they had experienced in the milonga was spilling over; they had danced out any trace of the roughish Argentinian wine; there was no intoxication now, just raw desire. For a few minutes she wondered if they were not going to consummate this evening with bricks against her back, in an alleyway in Paris with the strains of the tango music . The dancing had inflamed her ; it was fortunate he was the one to regain control. "I think it is time we retire to more comfortable quarters, Joan…." She drew him back to her lips briefly then let them disengage. "I think so too," she breathed in agreement. They wended their way back to the main street, where the driver was awaiting them. "Rue St. Honore," Eyal told him. That was not where their extended stay apartment was. Of course, he would not end an evening such as this back in that somewhat dreary spot.

Joan smiled as she settled into the seat.


	5. Chapter 5

They pulled up in front of the Hotel Costes; she knew it by reputation, attracting more than its fair share of celebrities, especially those of the more bohemian kind. She noted with satisfaction that they held their own against the sprinkling of glitterati that made the lobby and bar a busy place even as the hour grew very late. They nearly passed the bar, but perhaps his nerves were slightly shakier than he pretended. "A nightcap?"

"Now, the Sazerac."

"Exactly. " He guided her to a spot that had opened up along the bar. "Two Sazeracs, please," he told the barman, who took it in stride; this bar probably saw more than its fair share of absinthe-containing drinks. He was feeling educational, or perhaps she was right that he was, approaching the moment of truth, a bit uneasy and covering it with conversation. "It's actually an excellent drink for those of us in our line of work, Joan."

"Paperclip manufacturing?"

"Yes … paperclips." He smiled. "It's stimulating but not overly intoxicating – at least not in the usual ways. The bitters are based on an herb, gentian, which is known for, among other properties, a generally stimulating effect on the autonomic nervous system. The rye whisky relaxes, the bitters stimulates, and the wormwood – the absinthe primarily though it is in the bitters as well – the absinthe, in small quantities, is an aphrodisiac. Alert, relaxed, and aroused – what could be better?"

"Making correct use of that state?" she asked sweetly, smiling, looking away, a final moment of flirt. The drinks arrived on cue.

"Absolutely," he whispered in her ear. She sipped the drink, smelling the sharp green scent of the absinthe – stronger here. It was chilly on her tongue, the flavor opening as it warmed into her mouth. She savored the first taste of it, well aware it was probably the last one she'd ever share with him; the touch of sadness she felt in that thought made her want him still more and not waste any more time, even for the perfect Sazerac. He was watching her, tracking her mood, and any nervousness now did seem to be replaced by an alert, intuitive readiness. "Let's finish these upstairs," he said, reaching for the leather folder with 'l'addition" inside. He signed it with a flourish.

They rode the small elevator up in the few flights in silence and then drew her along by the hand down the corridor to their room, opening the door to a charming room which she barely had time to register on her consciousness when they were tangling in each other, passions rising, no doubts or questions allowed at this point. These kisses wouldn't pause or be interrupted by another phase of the evening, no matter how pleasant, how perfect, all that had been. It was a pleasure to toss aside that perfectly tailored tux jacket, to pick apart the buttons, carefully but as quickly as she could manage, bare his beautiful muscled chest, and peel the shirt away where it clung a little tightly over his biceps. He unzipped her dress, freeing her from that outer layer, but her lingerie wasn't to be discarded just yet. For the second time that evening he was carrying her, but this time it was just the few feet to the romantic, over-pillowed bed, most of which were on the floor in seconds. And the saleslady had been right; her lacy panties were indeed tres convenient as he slid inside of her, ending the tension for both of them.

This could still go wrong, he could be inept at the important moments in between; most men were, he might be no different. But no; after a brief time of gasping and recovery he pulled her close to him, her blond head lying on his chest, stroking the sweat-heavy hair from her eyes, murmuring her name. The hotel, perhaps wise in thse things, had left a fancy bottled water on the nightstand. He reached for it and they shared it. "This is beautiful stuff," he said, his hand on the top edge of her corset -"But I want your skin against me, Joan, it's better than silk."

"Thank goodness!"

"Tired of all the decorations…"

"Yes!" He managed to free her of it and undo the garters and peel off her stockings, one of which had a substantial run. How much had they cost? It didn't matter. They joined the flung pattern of clothing on the floor which they had begun with his tux.

Then he pulled her to him again and showed her that he really did prefer her bare skin over any "decorations".

In the half light of the room, partly illuminated by a light behind the closed bathroom door, she looked at him, his long lean body splayed on the bed, showing her all its secrets, for a moment asleep and apparently without care, spent of both passion and anger. For a moment. Joan had no delusions that she had achieved any kind of lasting change in him, but maybe had given him a pause in his pain. What he did from that stopping point, she didn't and wouldn't know. She woke him by cupping her palm against his cheek; it was like petting a cactus. He woke with a start, and she knew his defenses had truly dropped.

"I have to go," she said, in a voice that she made sure melted in with the morning. He shook his head, murmured "No!" and reached for her again. "No, really, I have to go. I have to go get my luggage and then get to the airport."

"No, you don't." He pulled her down toward him, kissed her; she could feel the strength rising in him against her. Oh god, did she have time? She knew she did not… almost.

"Yes, I do." She insisted, trying to pull away, hoping he would overcome her resistance.

"No, I mean it, I stopped and got your luggage before I picked you up. It took me a little longer to pack for you than I expected – that's why I was a bit late. It's all in the closet." She pulled away to check.

"What, you don't believe me? After the night we just shared, you _still_ doubt me?"

She opened the closet. There was all her gear. "No more doubts at all," she said, returning happily to the bed, setting herself free of her evening gown again.

"Good. We have twenty-three minutes before our pre-ordered American-style breakfast – in your honor - arrives – I can't send you away hungry."

"Believe me, you're not leaving me unsatisfied," she said, tangling herself with him. But maybe that wasn't quite true., maybe she would always be hungry for more. He had a way of looking at her – as he was now – and she wondered if she'd find that look very often in her life – as if she were _the_ one_, the_ woman. Some contrarian part of her wanted to quiz him on that look, find out if he knew what he was doing, its effect on her heart and probably on the heart of any woman he ever gazed at that way. It would be useful information for him to know, in his future assigned seductions.

But she said nothing. And she wondered what her own eyes were saying to him, because it also seemed as if he could barely keep looking at her, as if it was almost on the edge of being too painful as these last minutes – which he had miraculously extended - ticked by. Then they were caught up in kissing and caresses and more lovemaking, and that dangerous dance of glancing eyes was lost in something more purely needful and erotic.

Reluctantly, Joan once more disentangled herself from him and headed to the shower; he joined her and that was that; he even washed her hair, a favor she returned with some other soaping up. But at least she was managing to squeeze in a shower simultaneously. She did not want to arrive back at Langley hours from now still looking too well-loved.

When they emerged, damp and spent, the breakfast cart had arrived and they sat down to their Eggs Benedict and coffee, lots of coffee. They ate in silence, quickly.

"I need to say this – thank you, Joan."

"You're welcome , Eyal. And may I say, exceedingly well-done."

"The pleasure was all ours," he agreed, accepting his kudos with that killer smile.

"Yes, it was, wasn't it? It was a magnificent evening, Eyal. " He nodded, now seeming a little embarrassed by her praise. He glanced at his watch. "The car – I regret to say – will be arriving in seven minutes."

"Perfect."

"No, perfect would be something else again entirely, Joan. "

"Yes," she said. And took herself in hand. Time to go, Joan, permanently, despite feeling a true affection for him. He had given her the gift of a wonderful night in Paris, artfully surrendered to her his secondary virginity, and if she were honest with herself, she had been just a bit intimidated at the thought of working with a hardcore Mossad agent, something now permanently cured. She put his cell phone in his hand as she kissed him and folded his fingers around it as she pulled away. He looked at it a bit bewildered. "I'll call you," he said, thinking that was what she was cuing him to do.

She shook her head. "Don't you dare. I know that what this is – well, now, was, is over. The chances of us crossing paths again, never mind being assigned together, are infinitesimally small. You know I have plans for my career, and they don't include the complications a wildcard Mossad agent would bring into the picture. But if they did, you'd be first in line." She squeezed her hand over his. "Call your fiancée. If she was really special to you, don't make her live with the idea that your life and future family with her came in a distant second to your need for revenge. That's a terrible thing to do to a young woman. "

"For all I know she's married to somebody else by now."

"My analysis is that you're a pretty hard act to follow, Eyal Levin, and if you arrange it so your reunion meeting lets you wear your new tux, I don't think even that would matter much. Well, I've got to go. 'Bye!" She grabbed for the handle of her carryon and was out of the danger zone of the bedroom in an instant.

"Au revoir."

She closed the door with a sense of relief and went rapidly through the hotel halls and down to the taxi. The trembling in her persisted. Maybe it was bad escargot from the previous evening, she suggested to herself, but she knew that wasn't it. Her pace increased; she was literally running away from Eyal. What was she running towards? An awkward assignment with an asset of hers who might have been double-dealing, something that put her slightly under suspicion as well – had she not been careful enough in the recruitment? Had she overlooked something? But she knew there was a taint, because she had been assigned a partner for what normally would be left to her alone to deal with. She didn't know much about this Arthur Campbell, though her handler David had referred to him as "another rising star in the agency, like you, Joan" and suggested she would have a pleasant time working with him. What were the odds he would be as pleasant as the very compelling Eyal Levin she was leaving behind as fast as her legs would carry her? One in a million. Maybe, she thought, ten million.

Crossing the lobby, she heard the cry of "Joan! Wait!' and enjoyed watching Eyal, barefoot and still tucking his shirt into his pants, running through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk, a boarding pass in his hand. But she had hers, printed out from the afternoon before. "I almost forgot," he said, rushing up to her. There were a number of eyes on them, watching the drama unfolding between two striking individuals parting in the early morning. She couldn't help but enjoy the feeling that she was the envy of the women around her, being chased after by a clearly just-out-of-bed Eyal Levin, and she did him no shame, either. But even she was not prepared for what was next. He handed her the boarding materials. "I used my airmiles and upgraded you to First. Enjoy your flight, Joan." All of her defenses dropped; she felt an uprush of passion and, damn it, love at that moment as she threw her arms around his neck.

"You darling!" She'd thought their final parting kiss upstairs had been passionate, but apparently, the thought of a first-class seat all the way home was more of an aphrodisiac than she had dreamed possible. "Thank you."

"The thanks are mine to give, Joan, you know that. " They held each other for a long moment. Then she slid into the taxi, Eyal shut the door, and her stay in Paris was over.

The intervening month had been a busy one, full of new challenges and new beginnings. She wasn't sure why David had called her to his office, but things were going well and she wasn't concerned. She knocked and entered.

"Glad you're back Joan. You've had a busy last six weeks or so!"

"To say the least."

"And speaking of things being said, I wanted to share this with you. " He waved a file in her direction.

"What is it?"

"Mossad's wrap up report on your shared mission in Paris."

Oh.

She sat down.

"Don't look so concerned. It was a great success, the intel better than was hoped, turned a useful contact…. Still, usually with these dual missions, we're lucky if the Mossad side remembers to mention we were involved at all," he laughed. "But listen to this: "In the interest of fairness to our colleagues at the CIA – " -actually, they have no interest in fairness whatsoever – "It must be noted that, although she was not present during the final stages of the mission, the success of this mission largely depended on the strategic and operational analysis she provided during our first few days of working together. It is my view that without her vital insights and technical assistance, the success of this mission would have been compromised and our goal may not have been achieved without her presence." David let her read the paragraph. She saw the signature, a bold and confident scrawl. She touched it with her finger without meaning to, but David didn't notice. "This is pure gold for you. Mossad is notoriously tricky to deal with and this guy sounds like a particularly hardass example, given his history. Whatever you did or said, you handled him right. You're already one of our go-to girls here and now, you've got a gold star on interagency missions with Mossad, and your latest partner, Arthur Campbell, is also raving about your skills. This won't hurt your career trajectory here at all. Good job."

"Thank you," Joan replied.

She left the office and in moments, found the aforementioned Arthur Campbell at her elbow. "I can get away for two hours tonight," he said to her in a whisper. "7 pm?"

"Can't. Busy."

"What?"

"I can't. I'm busy."

"But –"

"Wednesday would work."

" I thought you'd … what are you doing?"

"Sorry. Classified." She gave him a regretful look, shrugged her shoulders slightly. He looked flabbergasted. Since they had started their affair during their mission together, she had never said "no" before. And though the attraction was blisteringly strong, emotionally and sexually, she wondered if she would have rushed into the arms of a married CIA man quite so fast if she had not been determined to wipe out – or at least contain – the memory of a particular even-less-suitable Mossad agent. She had viciously dismissed any thought of Eyal since the moment her plane had landed and she had stood up from the embrace of the first-class seat he had provided for her. But thinking of him now had been thrust on her by the conversation with David – she had not sought him out in her mind, and somehow, even with her burgeoning passion for Arthur, she didn't want to push the thought of Eyal aside again just yet. Besides, saying "No" to Arthur seemed to be having quite an enjoyable effect. He nervously ran a hand through his hair; his hand reflexively reached out to touch her, but he pulled it back, realizing where they were, and his voice, normally so calm and strong – one of the many things she liked about him – sounded a little choked.

"Okay then. I'll make Wednesday work somehow. But I've got to see you."

"You're seeing me now."

"You know what I mean."

She smiled.

Back at her apartment Joan slid in a DVD of a Paris travelogue, the cheesiest and most romantic she could find. She took out the items she had bought at the BevMo and put the bottles in the freezer to chill for a while before assembling herself a perfect Sazerac.

It was a lovely evening.

**_Author Note: Do review if you have a moment! Much appreciated and the reviews good or bad are so inspiring. This story is also connected with my "Mermaid Beach" which is strictly Annie/Eyal though Joan makes an appearance. Both are part of a bigger constellation of stories still developing._**


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